


Windflower

by animecandy



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Homestuck - Freeform, M/M, Sadstuck, Self Harm, Sexual Themes, animecandy, davejohn - Freeform, johndave - Freeform, mspa - Freeform, windflower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animecandy/pseuds/animecandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave has been closing himself off to everybody, even his best friends. Hidden emotions threaten to expose themselves and possibly ruin a great friendship. Ignorance isn't always bliss, it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally on fanfiction.net, but i'm moving it here too :) ((It's best viewed in chapter form!)) ((I follow the Windflower tag on tumblr and if you have any comments, questions, or complaints- you can reach me at animecandy.tumblr.com))

The light is filtering in through the shades of your dank, dark living space. That is to say, your room. Your mind wanders throughout varying topics, some relevant to your situation, others completely arbitrary. You can feel Bro watching you. You know he is. His gaze itches and scratches and crawls upon your skin and a slithering shudder ascends up your spine. You know he's concerned. You know that there's reason for him to be. After all, you haven't left the house in two weeks.

He makes no effort to approach you though, instead standing back and giving you uncharacteristic glances from behind his shades. Your own pair are on the nightstand where you left them. After all, who cares if you look cool anymore.

Somewhere far off there is a song playing. Its piano notes that swirl into light beats and a soothing voice… Your eyes close, allowing the music to wash over you. The music is your friend…

Friends…

You haven't spoken to any of them in a while have you? You know they've been trying to reach you. You have the fifty unread messages to prove it. You can't face them right now. Especially not him. Not the friendly blue text littered with enthusiasm. You can't. You force yourself to suck in a ragged breath, causing your ribs to slide underneath your skin. Your pulse pounds in the wounds scattered over your body, your head joining along.

Your phone buzzes yet again, shifting slightly on the desk near your window. A groan escapes your throat and your blazing eyes open. The ceiling is still the same shade of white it has been for the past week. Like you even expected it to change. The cords that lay lazily across your bedroom floor dig into your shoulder blades and another groan escapes your throat. Your stomach tightens as your whole body creaks to life, dragging you into a sitting position. Your bones ache and your muscles spasm again. Your eyes open and trail down to your over-sized clothing.

The loose blue jeans that hover around your skin are stained and grungy. The large red shirt that hangs loosely from your frame is in the same state, and you frown at it. Your hands move slowly and timidly to your chest, hovering over it for a moment before your palms press to the fabric. Your hands quiver slightly as they press against your sternum through the thin cloth. You can feel the bone there, and trace it upwards and along your collarbone. Your eyes drift to the floor, absent and empty. Your fingertips trace up your neck to your face.

Your jawbone presses against your skin and you press the pads of your fingers to it before moving on to your thin lips. You are immediately reminded of what you wish to do with those lips and you shake the idea from your mind. Your fingers wander up to your cheekbones, sharp and prominent. You sigh and your bony fingers drop from your sunken cheeks. You grunt with effort to stand and are greeted with a gust of air causing your light ashen hair to waft around your face.

You just want it to carry you away. You want to melt into the air and flow outwards and fluidly, but are bound and chained and restricted with the weight of your ridged body. Your mind brings you back to your stupor. You have no desire to continue with life. You do not wish to die, as that would require effort and would cause others to worry about you. Disappearing is what you want. You want to fade; to have never even existed. You want your name and legacy to bubble and flow and fade until it never existed.

A hand cards through the greasy hair and pulls away with disgust. You need a shower. With some motivation, you open your bedroom door with your eyes trained on the floor the entire way to the bathroom. When you get there Lil' Cal is sitting on the sink, a towel folded neatly in his lap. How considerate. You snatch the towel from his grasp and put it on the back of the toilet seat. When you look back, he is gone. Without much thought, you close the bathroom door and lock it. The loose clothing easily slides off of your body without much irritation.

You don't look at yourself. You don't want or need to. You know that your body is grotesque and hideous and gangly and pale. You know that your freckles stand out against the translucence of your skin tone. And you know that there are swollen pink lashes marking you. Some are from your own nails, some are from strifes- and some are from your razorblade.

You've been warring with the repulsive habit for about a year now. They never go too deep. Just enough to bring forth pricks of blood form under your skin. And after every recurring episode, you promise you'll stop. You hate yourself for not living up to your own promises. You started looking for other people that did it, glancing at exposed skin from behind mirrored glasses. You never found any. Maybe you were just that fucked up.

—-

After a thorough scrub under the searing water, you step out of the shower and wrap the towel around you. You pick up your clothes from the floor and throw them half-hazardly into your room when you get there. You pick out more baggy clothes from your drawer and throw them on, not caring how they looked as long as they didn't touch your skin. You jump as your phone vibrates on the desk again and sigh. When will they just let you be? When will they forget you? When will they stop caring? A huff escapes through your lips and you let yourself fall onto the bed, which is warm and inviting. The song is still there, in the distance.

_Wake up…_

The tired voice drones in the back of your mind, allowing your body to relax.

_Look me in the eyes again._

_I need to feel your hand upon my face…_

You wonder if this is what people mean by their conscience. The voice lulls you while you drift in the emptiness that is your body. Maybe it can help you…

_Words can be like knives…_

_They can cut you open._

There is unwanted truth and emotion in the song and you push it away. It retreats from your focus for now, hiding away for later. You let your eyes open a sliver and stare at your hand on the bed. It traces the sheets, circling around the various clubs, spades, hearts, and diamonds. Each one is a vivid splash of color against the dull white of the rest of the blankets.

After a few minutes you get bored of that and allow your mind to return to the song. As your eyes close, your phone vibrates yet again with a message that might never be read.

_And the silence surrounds you_

Somewhere, unbeknown to you, a door opens and shuts, a figure stepping inside.

_And holds you_

They're talking now. You don't know what they're saying or even that they're saying it.

_I think I might've inhaled you_

One is awkward and nervous, but seems determined for some reason.

_I can feel you behind my eyes_

He is heading towards you now. Your ears barely register the steps down the hall.

_You've gotten into my bloodstream_

You disregard the thumping steps as a tired Bro going to his room to get Cal or something.

_I can feel you floating in me_

That is, until a knock sounds on your door. At once, the song disappears and fades. You want to follow it. You don't want it to be gone. The knocking sounds again, this time harder. You sit up, watching the door with sunken eyes. The knob twists and the door opens without your consent. You prepare yourself to tell Bro yet again to get out and leave you the fuck alone, but everything breaks when you see who's there.

And suddenly you can't do this. Standing in your doorway, with an expression that's a mixture of hurt, anger, worry, and shock crossing his features, is John Egbert. Your wall shatters.

You weren't prepared for this. You're sitting there with your eyes wide and your mouth hanging open dumbly. Your hands have become fists clenching the sheets on either side of you. Your brain screams at you to form words, to say anything. It nags, telling you to pull your head out of your ass and explain why you look like utter shit. But you can't.

Luckily, John seems to find his voice and recover the conversation. His eyes are trained on you and look concerned.

"What the fuck is going on, Dave?" His voice is demanding as he asks it. "What the hell is going on with you?"

You're a deer in headlights about to get hit by a semi-truck. You don't know how the fuck to explain something like this to the love of your life.


	2. Chapter 2

You're surprised when you get a text from an unknown number telling you to come talk to Dave. You texted the number back asking who it was. You received a short answer.

" _Bro"_

And that was all you needed. You asked your dad if you could hurry over to Dave's and speculated the entire drive. You'd been worried about him, he hadn't texted you in weeks after all. It was unusual. Usually he was the first to text you in the morning with a flaming bright wall of red letters. Maybe it was because you'd been an ass to him… You shake the thought from your head, but it stays firmly planted in your cranium and you suddenly dread confronting Dave.

You shift uneasily in the backseat of your dad's car and before you know it you pull up outside of Dave's apartment. You suddenly find yourself sucking in a breath around your protruding front teeth and stepping out of the sedan. Your father tells you to call him when you finish with your business, saying he will be there promptly afterwards to pick you up. You thank him for the ride, worrying slightly on your bottom lip.

You don't know what to expect when you nervously knock on the door. Before your knuckles can make contact a second time the door is swinging open to a lean man in a white shirt and ridiculous sunglasses. You only have a moment to ponder why Dave thinks he's so cool before you're practically being pulled inside. You're pushed in and barely catch yourself as you stumble backwards. Your mouth opens in protest but Bro just shakes his head, effectively shutting you up. You're looking at him expectantly and you can tell he's hesitating.

"What's up?" you feel the words escape your lips and they're surprisingly business-like. You like this no-bullshit voice. He seems a little annoyed that you even asks, then just smooths out his white tee. You practically have to hold back laughter at how lame he is.

"Dave. He hasn't said a word to me in a week. Hasn't left the house in even longer. That and he seems to have mutilated the shit out of his arms." At the first parts you almost roll your eyes. You knew all of that. But at the last part you feel your gaze harden and lock onto Bro.

"Wait, are you serious?" you fumble with your words and feel your eyebrows knit together in thought.

"Why would I call your doofy ass here to fix this if I wasn't fucking serious." It's not a question and the tone of his voice makes you flinch.

"But.. What do you want m-me to do?" you curse yourself at the stutter and the helplessness of your voice. His lip twitches in what you guess is irritation.

"I don't fucking know, you're the kid's best friend. I'm sure you'll figure something out when you see him." He turns away like you don't have any more questions and points to a door down the hall. "Have at it."

You glance to the door for a moment, and then back to him with uncertain eyes. You finally build up the courage to move, though, and head towards the door. You try to make your posture and steps confidant for show, but when you turn to see if Bro is watching you any more, he's gone. You sigh and turn towards the door. It is an obstacle now. You bring your hand to the crafted wood and knock. You can hear a small shift from inside and wait a moment. He doesn't come to the door and you're a little worried. Your next knock is slightly frantic and you're biting your lip again. Louder shuffling. With a huff, your fingers clasp the door knob and open it to the bright room.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you see. His room is a mess, worse than usual. Clothes are layered thickly in piles and wires branch around the floor. But what really makes your eyes pop is Dave. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at you with the eyes of a cornered animal. His mouth is open and you can almost see the splits in his lips from here. His hands have a vice grip on his sheets and his knuckles are white from the force. You take a moment to think of what to say and can't come up with much.

"What the fuck is going on, Dave?" Your voice is surprisingly steady. "What the hell is going on with you?"

His face is immediately drenched with horror. You take it that he wasn't alerted to your visit. He looks… Horrible. He's deathly pale and looks sickly. You want to run over to him but only manage a step inside, a strange smell in the air.

"J-John.." he stutters on your name and you feel your heart clench at the roughness of his voice. "Why are you-?" his voice trails off with a rasp and he still has that look plastered onto his face.

"Dave." Your voice shudders a little and your eyes are darting over him frantically. "What's going on? Why are you closing yourself in like this? We haven't spoken in a few weeks! Why won't you answer my messages?" you shut off the flowing valve of questions and look at him expectantly. You're hurt. You're hurt by him ignoring you. You're hurt by the neglect he's obviously been showing himself. You're hurt by the fact that you let it get this bad.

He's your friend. Friends are supposed to be there for each other aren't they? Why couldn't you be there for him? Why did it take his asshole brother asking you to get you to come visit and see what was up? You can feel the stinging in the corner of your eyes and wipe them hurriedly with the back of your arm. He's staring at you, his face uncharacteristically twisted with emotion. You can't help it; you run to him. You almost trip on the power cords layering the floor, but finally get to him and pull him into the tightest embrace you dare. His shoulders dig into your forearms and you want to punch him. You want to hurt him for not eating. You want to punch yourself for not being there to make him.

Your face is buried in his neck and you sniffle against his skin and damp hair. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders hesitantly react and move his arms up and around you. You gives you a small squeeze and you want to cry because he's just so damn  _weak._ You hold him tighter and murmur something almost intelligible to him.

"I'm sorry…" you can feel his body tighten against your arms and you would shake your head if it wasn't in the crook of his shoulder. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on.." He stiffens up even more, despite your gentle hold. You finally let your arms fall away and pull back. His arms slide off of your back and he looks up at you with strangely open red eyes. You give him time to reply, not pressuring him, and instead pulling up his desk chair so you can sit facing him. It's a minute or two before his gruff voice finally sounds.

"It's.. Nothing.." you squint at him and furrow your eyebrows.

"Dave, this isn't nothing. You haven't talked to anyone in weeks and you look like you haven't eaten in days." You reach your hand out to give him a reassuring pat on the knee but he flinches away and you pull your hand back awkwardly. "I promise you can tell me anything, even if it's my fault." He seems to tense slightly at that, but you disregard it.

"John, seriously, I'm fine. It's just a phase." He seems to be speaking a little easier at least. "Don't worry about me."

"Dave. Don't you dare fucking lie to me. If it's because I was an asshole to you, then I'm sorry. I'll be less of a douche, but you can't do this to yourself!" he's giving you a questioning look now as if he's pondering you.

"How could this ever be your fault, John? And there's nothing for you to even be at fault for, so you can tell Bro that I'm fine and go on your merry Egbert way." His voice is short and choppy and the look of shock has faded.

"Dave, don't even deny it. I know something's up. It's my job as your  _best friend_  to take care of you." You stress the words and lean forward expectantly. You tried getting a glimpse of his arms that you'd heard about, but a baggy long sleeve shirt put an end to that.

"John, I'm seriously fine. You don't have to worry about m-" he's cut off by you.

"Take off your shirt, Dave." Your voice is demanding and his face tints pink and goes right back to the look of shock.

"What? Wh-"

"Take it off. Now." You try to sound menacing, you need to see what he'd done. He hesitates for a long time, then stands and looks down at you as if asking why. You just nod and lean back a little. He grips the bottom of his shirt and looks at you again before biting his lips and pulling it over his head. Your eyes want to immediately go to his arms, but they stop. They roam over his torso and you want to vomit at the sight.

He's literally  _covered_ in lacerations. Your mouth hangs open and one thought passes through your head.

_Holy shit._


	3. Chapter 3

John Egbert is in your fucking room trying to talk about feelings. You can't bring yourself to tell him anything remotely truthful. You can't tell him what's wrong. He's blaming himself and you don't even know if it's his fault or not.

No.

This is your fault. This is your fault for falling in love with your best friend. But he's still blaming himself and you want to tell him the real reason you're fucking everything up. The real reason you're closing yourself off and wishing you could melt into the carpet. His eyes are roaming over you and you can feel your questioning gaze on him.

"John, I'm seriously fine. You don't have to worry about m-" and suddenly John is talking over you.

"Take off your shirt, Dave." His voice is serious and holy shit. He's asking you to strip for him. You wonder idly if he knows about your sickening feelings for him and is testing you. Either way, he's looking at you expectantly and you can feel your face get hot.

"What? Wh-" and again his voice imposes over your own.

"Take it off. Now." You just stare at him.  _He's serious._  You don't know if you can do this. You're covered in scars you don't want anyone to know about. The scars show the insecurity you don't want anyone to know about. And that insecurity shows the problem you don't want anyone to know about; but he's staring at you with those expectant eyes and you  _have to._

You stand, your legs protesting under the weight; even if it is a fraction of what is was a few months ago. You look at him; his blue eyes squinted in determination. He gives a fractional nod and your stomach slithers. You grasp the bottom of your shirt with uncertain fingers and nervously pull on some dry skin on your lip when you look at him again and he has the same face. You pull the fabric up and over your head as slowly as you dare, maybe he'll change his mind and you won't have to expose yourself. But he doesn't and you pull the whole shirt off and throw it on the bed.

You wait for what seems like ages and look at him. He has a horrified, disgusted look on his face and his mouth is hanging open. You didn't know that happened outside of movies until now. You watch his eyes slowly slide in their sockets, his gaze lighting your skin ablaze. You squirm and shift under his watch. You don't want him to see you like this. You watch his eyes roam over every upraised strip of skin, every one of the pink marks that cover your body. Then they make their way to your wrists and you can practically feel the horror that he shows in his face.

You pull your arms together so they're crossed over your stomach. His gaze immediately flicks up to you and you can see that his eyes are watery. Now it's your turn to be horrified.

"John- Don't. I'm not worth you crying over.." your eyelids droop as you look down at him.

"Are you kidding me Dave?" You expect the words to sound angry or even determined, but he sounds… defeated. "You're worth more than you think." He stands and looks you in the eyes. You look down into the depths of his vivid blue eyes and feel the flush in your cheeks over how close your faces were. You step back, but he grabs your arm, making you yelp at the contact with fresh wounds. His arm immediately withdrew, but not without keeping you firmly in place.

"Why can't you face me, Dave?" you could hear his concern in his voice. "I just want to help. And I can't if you don't fucking tell me what's wrong. These cuts didn't just appear on you one day, so what the hell is up?"

You flinch at his language; John doesn't swear much. And when he does, it's usually only when he's really upset.

"Well?" he's actually expecting an answer... You let out a ragged breath and look away from him; anywhere but John is a good place to look right now.

"I really can't tell you John. You're the only person on the planet I can't tell." You glimpse to him to see a look of hurt on his face and stutter to recover yourself. "I-it's not because of you! No, no, no, it's not your fault." He is quick with the reply.

"Then whose fault is it Dave? If it's not mine, then whose is it?" he's still hurt. You can hear it in the way his tone wavers and the slight sniffle of his nose afterwards.

"Mine..." you almost laugh at how cliché that was, but now doesn't seem like the time at all. It really is your fault. "If I hadn't…" you stop your sentence and let your voice fall away. You hope it tumbles down a cliff somewhere never to be heard again so you have an excuse not to come out to your friend right now. You would have been content staying in that small closet space for the rest of your life.

"If you hadn't what? What'd you do that could possibly be bad enough that you have to hurt yourself this badly?" you freeze at the fact that he even picked up on the sentence. You don't want to say anymore.

"It's nothing, John. Leave it alone already." The irritation shows in the way you back up from him and grab your shirt from the bed, but he's not about to give up.

"I will not leave until you tell me, Dave!" he's angry and the first salty tears have escaped from the corners of his puffy blue eyes. You watch them fall down his cheeks and want to wipe them away. He looks so much better when his face isn't contorted and growing damp. He can't know. You can't ruin this. You need to get out. You need time to think, time to be alone.

"Then I will." You just want to hold him tightly, but you push him away. You slip on your shirt and hurry to the door. You think you hear him yelling after you, but you don't care. You're eyes are blurred with unshed tears, but you don't care. You can barely see through them by the time you make it down the hall and to the door. You can hear him thumping after you and you speed up. He can't catch you. You won't let him. Everything is blurry and your eyes sting but you make your way to the sidewalk and look back to see if he's following you. You don't see him. And you don't see Bro chasing after you either.

And you most certainly don't see the Chevy hit you.


	4. Chapter 4

And suddenly you're being pushed down into the desk chair, where you sit in momentary shock as he hurries to put on his shirt and bolts out the door. You finally realize what the fuck is going on and yell after him, tripping over your own limbs to get up out of the chair. You get your body coordinated and haul yourself out of the desk chair, following Dave.

He's tripping over things on the floor in the living room as he stumbles to the door. You're gaining on him, watching your footing around all of the bullshit littering the carpet. Bro looks at you questioningly, but you ignore him.

When you reach the door, Dave is in the street. He's looking around, dazed. You run to him, but stop as he turns to you. He's looking directly at you, but right through you. The look paralyzes you and you can't bring yourself to move. Your legs are cold, unmoving pillars of stone. Dave's aren't though, and he backs up a little more. That's when you see his body concave. You hadn't even noticed the car.

It hits his midsection and everything is slow. His back arches unnaturally and his head whips around. His body hangs in the air a moment before movement catches up to him and he is thrown a few feet from the car. You swear you hear a crackling, shattering sound, followed by tires screaming to a halt. But the car has stopped and there's still screaming. You didn't know you had even started screaming.

Dave is crumpled in front of the car and the driver looks horrified. But you don't care about the driver as she hangs up her phone and opens her car door. You're sprinting the rest of the way to Dave where he lies on the pavement. You collapse onto your knees next to him, your hands shaking and hovering over his mangled body. The driver is beside you now, restlessly moving and pacing and repeating "oh my god, oh my god." You don't know what to do.

You can't even believe it just happened. Dave shifts slightly with a groan and coughs thick, mucous-y blood onto the road. Then you finally get it into your head that it did happen. And you need to do something. You fumble with your pocket and pull out your phone, struggling to see the numbers through blurry eyes. You finally tap out the emergency number and wait. The ringing seems endless until a woman finally picks up.

"Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?" you can't bring yourself to say it. Coming to terms with what has just happened is slow. But you finally bring yourself to voice it, although choking back tears.

"M-my friend was just hit… by a car.." your words are slurred and mumbled and garbled but the woman amazingly understands you.

"What is your name and location, sir?"

"John Egbert… and we're at the corner of Main Street. Please hurry… Oh my god, please…" you were frantic now and tears were coming steadily down your face.

"We'll be there as soon as possible sir. I'm going to stay on the phone with you until EMTs arrive, alright? Everything will be fine. Was anyone else hurt?" You shake your head, then moments later realize she can't see you and sniffle out your reply.

"No, no, just hurry, please. He's bleeding and…" your voice drifts off and you swallow heavily, your throat filled with mucus.

"We're dispatching now sir. Help will be there soon. Until they get there, we need you to not touch the victim, alright?" As soon as she refers to Dave as a 'victim', you want to vomit. And you do. Your mouth fills with bile and your body curls inwards on itself, forcefully expelling the contents of your stomach.

"Sir, are you alright?" the voice at the end of the telephone sounds worried, and you just manage piece together a response.

"Yeah... I'm fine..." A satisfied noise comes from the phone. You wipe your mouth and look over to where Dave is with watery eyes.

He's covered in blood and Bro is next to him. You didn't even see him come out here. He's sitting by Dave, but moves to get up, his face and body ridged. He walks up to the woman and begins speaking to her, his tone low and sharp. She's nodding and crying, but you turn away. A gag pulses through your body as you drag yourself to Dave. His chest rises and falls, but only fractionally.

Tears fall harder now as the gravity of the situation hits you. Your body shakes with sobs and you just want to hold him closely and fix his mangled stance, but you can't. You know it will hurt him and you've already done enough. All you can do is curl up and cry with the phone to your ear as the sirens become clearer. You watch his chest heave and fall to the slow rhythm of nothingness. The air is stilled and there are a few people on the sidewalks looking at you now.

You just want to tell Dave how much he means to you. You don't want his last memory of you to be you screaming at him and prying at his feelings. You curl up a little more, hugging your knees while the woman on the phone babbles nonsense you don't care about. Your mouth is bitter and dry but you open it and rasp out an old song you learned on piano.

"Hold me…" The sobs are racking your body but you don't want to stop, you want Dave to hear.

"Wrap me up…" you try to add tune to the words but your voice cracks.

"Unfold me… I am small.. And needy…" Your voice keeps fading away against the blaring sirens. They're almost here. "Warm me up… And breathe me." And then you turn and vomit what little is left in your stomach, your tears still coming strong. They slide down your cheeks, making your whole face feel like a damp sponge. You sniffle again, struggling to breathe through the mess your body is making.

Then you turn to see the ambulance rounding the corner and screeching to a stop. You stand, barely able to hang up the phone and shove it into your pocket. The clothed medics jump from the back of the truck and hurry over to you and Dave. One pulls you aside to ask you questions, but you focus on the others examining the crumpled heap of flesh and blood that is your friend.

The woman in the vest asks you questions and you answer them absent mindedly. You're too busy looking around her as the others put a neck brace on Dave and wincing at every little touch. She finishes her questions and gives you a shock blanket, sitting you on the sidewalk. You'd wonder why a blanket would help with shock, but you're too busy watching them maneuver a stretcher over to Dave. They gather around him and you swear you can't move. Then their hands are on him and they're lifting him onto the stretcher and extending the foldable legs of the thing.

You jump when you feel a hand on your shoulder and look up to see Bro. His voice is carefully steady.

"Come on kid, we're gonna follow them to the hospital in my car." You nod and stand on shaking legs. You follow him to his small truck and climb in, clutching the blanket around you. Bro gets in smoothly and turns the key in the ignition, setting the engine rumbling. He backs out of the lot and turns left. You look around, confused.

"But the ambulance went-" you're cut off by him.

"They're not gonna let us drive through a crime scene. We have to go this way to get there." You nod, understanding, and buckle your seatbelt. You sink into the seat and stare out the window, trying not to think of anything. Especially not what just happened.

When you two finally pull into the hospital lot and park, Bro is out of the car before you can even unbuckle. He waits for you impatiently and then you both scurry inside. You're told to wait a few minutes.

The few minutes turn into half an hour and then an hour. You call your dad to tell him what happened and that you probably won't be home tonight. He says he understands and to give David his best wishes.

You start to get nervous. Then an overweight nurse comes out from behind the desk with a clipboard and tells you both that he's ready to be seen. Bro is up faster than you, but you both hurry into the small room. There are beeping machines and a tube going into Dave's arm. He's covered in a blanket and bandaged. You go straight to his bedside while Bro stands in the doorway, his face stoic.

You stand there dumbly for a moment before collapsing into the chair beside the cot and leaning against it for support. You openly weep. It's the only other sound beside the shuffling of doctors and the bleeping of the machine.

You know this wouldn't have happened if you had just left him. This is all your fault.


	5. Chapter 5

There's a pounding in your head. It feels like it's filled with molasses. Somewhere far off there is someone singing… Except you don't know this song. And it doesn't sound like it's in your head.

You want to open your eyes to see where it's coming from, but they are heavy and everything is fuzzy. Your whole body feels numb and splintery, you don't like that. You try and focus on the song. It's broken and quiet and unsteady, but soothing. Soon you find yourself falling asleep; falling into the darkness.

When you wake up everything is bright. You close your eyes tightly against the intrusion. When your eyes stop burning, you open them, still squinting against the harsh white glare. You're eyes are so sensitive to the light. You reach out your arm to grab your shades from the side table, but are met with a wall. You squint to your left to see a strange plastic piece on the side of the bed in the abnormally white room.

Since when was that there? You open your eyes completely despite the pain of it and scan the room. This isn't your room. There's a strange beeping sound coming from a machine on your right and your arm feels funny. You look down to see a needle in it, attached to a long tube. An IV? You put the pieces together and try to sit up, but your back is stiff and immovable. Your turn your head to the other side and see a familiar mess of straight black hair in the chair next to the bed.

You try to speak, but the words don't come out and you're left with your mouth open like a fish's. What happened? He's asleep in the chair like he's been there for hours. You look around the hospital room again and see a few posters with health tips, but no doctors. No one but John; not even Bro is here from what you can tell. You clear your throat which is dry and scratchy and try to speak again, this time managing a rasp.

"John?" it was pitiful and you curse at yourself, clearing your throat again. "John?" it was louder this time and you see the figure shift on the chair. You cough and repeat the words again. You don't want to be all alone in here. "John…" your voice cracks and sounds like gritty sandpaper, but it's loud enough to get John's attention.

His head turns and a familiar pair of deep blue depths are trained on you. They go wide and he practically throws himself from the chair, fumbling to put his glasses on. You want to laugh at how spastic he looks, but you refrain, knowing it would sound like nails on a chalkboard. When the glasses are balanced on his face and finally straight, he just looks at you with a mixture of awe and pity. You hate that look. It makes you want to get up and walk out. You don't want anyone to pity you.

"Dave! You're finally awake!" he sounds ecstatic and you wonder how long you were asleep. You wonder why you're in a hospital bed. You wonder why John is here. You can't deal with John being here.

"Why the 'finally'?" Have you been asleep that long? He looks at you, as if trying to see if you're joking.

"You've been unconscious for two days, Dave." You must look pretty shocked, because he gives you a look. "You don't remember what happened?"

"How am I supposed to know if I remember it if I might have forgotten it?" John smiled at that, but then the smile was gone, replaced by something more serious. He sat back down in the chair and scooted it closer. He reached out to you, lifting up the edge of the sheet and taking your hand in his.

You freeze; you can already feel your eyes going wide. He doesn't seem to notice your reaction, though, and just stares at your bony fingers clasped in his hands. His palms are so warm… You feel you fingers curling weakly around them. You can feel your heart pounding against the skin on your palms when he starts to speak. Your gaze immediately flickers to his eyes and everything is a little fuzzy, but you don't mind.

"I was trying to talk to you about what's going on with you... And you ran out…" he pauses for a second and gives your hand a squeeze, sending a flutter through your stomach. The pause prolongs and you look at him nervously.

"Then what? Why am I in the hospital?" all of this was confusing you. He just keeps staring at your hands and you want to make him look at you. You don't want him to be sad or nervous. His mouth opens to say something and nothing comes out, leaving him breathing lightly around his teeth. Finally he closes his mouth and trains his gaze on you. Your heart skips a beat.

"You were hit by a car… It came out of nowhere and you were hit and…" his voice trails off and you grip his hands. He looks down at them and slowly releases your hand, as if not knowing they were clasping yours. You frown, reaching your hand towards him. You want his hands back.

"What's wrong Dave?" you furrow your eyebrows, confused. "What was so bad that you couldn't tell me and had to run out?" and even though everything is fuzzy and distant, you know. Your hand reaches to his face and your fingertips run across his cheek. He starts and you drop them as he looks at you. You don't know what you're doing. You pull gently on his shirt and he gets the message and moves the chair closer.

"What is it? I won't tell anyone, I swear." There is black creeping around your vision and a headache forming but you still want to do this for some reason; no matter how stupid or absurd it will be. You move your left arm to him and shift, feeling a small jolt of pain at the movement. "Dave! Don't move! You'll hurt y-" he stops with wide eyes when you place a hand gently on either side of his face. "Dave?.." You pull his face closer gently, your head pounding.

Your faces are inches away now and his eyes are as wide as dinner plates. The deep blue pools are examining you closely, but you don't shrink away for some reason. The rest of the room is fuzzy and you can only see his face. He jerks his head in your grasp, but you pull him back. "Dave, what are you doing?" he sounds slightly frantic. Your noses bump in your unsteadiness but you turn his head slightly. He tries to pull away again but then your lips are meeting.

His skin is soft and tingly against yours. Your lips are slightly chapped and your mouth is still dry but his is soft and moist. Your heartbeat quickens. You're kissing John. You can't believe it. Everything hurts and reality is distant, but you're kissing him. He is making little noises against your lips that you take as encouragement as you press your mouths together. But then you feel his hands covering yours and he's pulling away again.

He throws your hands away and stumbles back, his eyes wide and gasping. He looks confused… You're confused too. You try to focus on what he's saying, but suddenly you get light headed. Your vision blacks out and you feel your arms fall limply to your sides.


	6. Chapter 6

Your name is JOHN EGB- No. Fuck that shit. Who are you even pretending to talk to? Everyone here knows your name. But nevertheless you’re confused as all hell.

After the incident you called the nurse. You informed her that he had woken up, and then slipped under again. She replaced the ice pack on his head and sat in the other chair. You needed to think. You rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness in your joints. The nurse just looked at you with a less-than enthusiastic look and you left. You decided to wander the halls.

You consider that it could have been a joke kiss, but he didn’t seem in the mood to joke at all. Or to talk, for that matter. What else could it be? The medicine wouldn’t have made him that loopy…  He seemed fine.

So... It was a serious kiss. You remember the exact way it felt and find yourself gently touching your lip. A nurse gives you an odd look and you whip your hand away, hunching your shoulders against her piercing gaze. It was so strange. Not what you expected a kiss to feel like. Sure, you had kissed Rose before, but that was different and didn’t count. Dave was alive. Even if only barely.

It had felt… mushy. And kind of soft, despite his lips being dry. You remember him pulling you in and squirm from the memory. What was going on? Why did he even do it? Your thinking is cut short as you round a corner only to become face to face with Bro. He must have been pacing too.

“How is he?” His voice is calm and even kind of soothing. You would have thought he’d be much more worried with Dave’s situation.

“He woke up for a few seconds then went out again.” You’re careful to leave out the part where he kissed you. Bro seems content with the answer and continues walking, waving a goodbye to you. Your eyes water and you yawn. What time was it? You pull out your phone to see three new text messages. Two were from Jade, one was from Rose. You decide to leave them for a bit. You exit out of the message prompt. It’s 9:16.

A sigh escapes from your lips, puffing in front of you and warming the air slightly. Visiting hours will be over soon and you’ll have to go home. You turn around and start to dial your dad’s number. A hand grabs the phone, startling you, and you look up to see Bro. You quirk an eyebrow at him.

“No need to call your dad. You can stay at our house. It’s closer and I can take you to visit with me tomorrow.” You must have hesitated because he sighs. “Dave will be fine. Don’t worry about him. It’s just a concussion and a broken leg.” It reassures you slightly, even though you know for a fact that Dave’s arm is sprained and his ribs are bruised.

“Yeah sure.” He nods and leads you off to his rusty old pick-up. You wonder why he doesn’t use all of the money he earns from his puppet shit to move out of the apartment and get a new car.

He must have seen the look on your face because he explains. “We like it this way. You don’t need fancy shit to be happy. Plus, I want to save the money for college. I want to give Dave a better chance than I had.” The words are kind of touching to you. But Bro just keeps staring ahead at the road. “You can stay in Dave’s room. His clothes should fit you.” You nod and stare out of the window the entire length of the ride; which isn’t that long anyway. You finally get to the apartment after climbing what seemed to be endless flights of stairs. You’re out of breath, but Bro seems completely at ease. Damn him. He opens the door and lets both of you in. The house is how you left it, in all of its messy glory.

“You know where all the shit is; go wild.” He thumps down on the futon, flicking on the plasma TV to some vague cartoon-ish show you don’t stay around long enough to care about. You go into Dave’s room and the memories hit you like a brick. Immediately you start to gather the clothes and trash from the floor, putting them in the garbage and washing machine respectively. After all of the laundry is done, you sit on the edge of the bed to fold it.

You still have a feeling itching under your skin. A curiosity crawling inside of you, grating away at your resolve.  The thoughts race through your head, but you can’t catch them to piece everything together. Dave seriously kissed you. Without joking about it. He’s been closed off and maiming himself. He’s lost weight and doesn’t seem to be eating. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

You look down to where you’ve been busily folding clothes and see they’re all neatly piled up. You pick them up, pile by pile, and deposit them into their rightful drawers. When you go to put his boxers away, something in the drawer catches your eye. You put down the pile and shift the clothes in there to get a better look.

You pick it up and immediately throw it across the room. It clinks against the wall and lands on the carpeted floor. You stare at it as if it will start moving, then look back to the drawer to see if there’s more. And there is. Inside is a small stash of razorblades. You hate them. Some have dried brown blood on them. Dave’s blood. You pick them up, careful not to knick yourself, and throw them across the room. They clatter to the floor, landing near the first one. You want to destroy them. You wish destroying them would fix Dave. You wish it were that easy. But there’s a veil between you.

And you fight to get through the mist while Dave waits hopelessly on the other side. But you know Dave isn’t hopeless. You can help him. You can fix him. It’s just so damn hard, though. You wish you had the reading capabilities of Rose. Or a more cooperative Dave to tell you exactly what was up. You were stuck with surprisingly little.

The blades sat on the floor and you got up, crouching and carefully picking each one up and throwing them in the garbage. You cover them with the other trash so you don’t have to look at them.

Suddenly your stomach growls and you’re reminded that you haven’t eaten all day. You head out of Dave’s now clean room and towards the kitchen. Bro is still sitting on the couch watching a show with candy-colored ponies or something. You walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. You jump and fall backwards with a squeak when swords come clattering out. You lay on the ground with your heart pounding for a minute until you calm down.

When you look up Bro is finishing gathering up the weapons and offers you a hand. You take it and get up. He mumbles something about you being slow, warns you about the others, and then goes back to his My Little whatever. You frown and decide to ask for Subway on the way to the hospital tomorrow. It’s much less risky. So instead of eating, you go to take a bath.

\-----

When you get to the bathroom you find they don’t have a bath tub. Only a glass walled shower. You lock the door behind you to prevent any awkward encounters and start to undress, feeling very awkward in a foreign bathroom. You usually only come in here to pee.

You turn on the water so it’s not scalding hot and step inside. The glass wall is strangely open, but you start to wash. You use Dave’s shampoo with the vague hope that maybe that’s why his hair is always so tidy. While scrubbing your scalp you look down at yourself and how the water runs over your body. The thought of masturbating comes into your mind but you immediately shake it out.

You’ve never jerked off in someone else’s house, and you don’t plan to. You finish up your shower and get out, grabbing for a towel and wrapping it around your waist. You gather your clothes from the floor and open the door. You nearly fall over again when you come face to face with Bro. Why was he waiting outside? Oh my god what if he heard you humming the Ghostbusters theme song.

“I need to pee, so do you think you can move out of the doorway before I piss my pants? I’m getting too old to hold it in you know.” The words stir you from your thoughts and you move aside. You go into Dave’s room and pick out some of his newly washed clothes, most of which have some form of red, and snuggle into bed. The mattress is stiff, but still bearable.

One last check of your phone and an update to Rose and you close your eyes for the night. Maybe Dave will be able to tell you what all this shit is about tomorrow.


End file.
